


Stickler

by geekmama



Series: A Fork in the Road [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 00:32:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8349238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: Dust mites are a cosmopolitan pyroglyphid that live in human habitations, feeding on organic detritus, such as flakes of shed human skin, and flourishing in the stable environment of dwellings.

  
    His wishes had been ignored. Explicit instructions had been set aside during his absence. It was more than he could -- or would -- tolerate.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Water" prompt.
> 
>  
> 
> *********************************

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, returning to London after two onerous days in the wilds of Lincolnshire, whence he and Watson had been summoned to investigate the possible murder of Lady Berenice Hobart (evidence as yet inconclusive), found himself registering shock and, subsequently, a mounting displeasure at the state in which he discovered that holy of holies, his Laboratory. His wishes had been ignored. Explicit instructions had been set aside during his absence. It was more than he could -- or _would_ \-- tolerate.

Archie, setting down the case containing the samples collected from the Hobart residence (and from the deceased herself), eyed his employer warily and muttered, “Told her you wouldn’t like it.”

“You were quite correct,” Sherlock said in icy accents. He hesitated. _Those samples must be analysed as soon as possible. However…_ He turned to Archie. “Kindly inform Miss Hooper that I wish to speak to her in the library immediately.”

“Yes sir, right away,” the boy said, and scurried off.

After another swift perusal of the desecration, Sherlock made his way to the library, entered, and began to pace. The act, which in Holmes’ opinion bordered on the criminal, had been perpetrated by one who had been retained on the strict understanding that she was, first, to care for and be a companion to the injured Mrs. Hudson (whose broken arm and sprained ankle were proving an extreme inconvenience not only to herself, but to all parties connected with the elderly landlady), and second, to coordinate the day-to-day activities associated with the maintenance of the Baker Street residence, always keeping in mind the distinctive, varying, and often exacting needs of the inhabitants. Miss Molly Hooper, a bland but, hitherto, blameless presence, had now failed the second of these requirements in a most definitive manner.

She must be taken to task.

Holmes became aware of a sense of anticipatory satisfaction at the prospect, yet he could not bring himself to feel any sort of compunction at the realization. His anger was entirely justified, of course, but beyond that, he had found Miss Hooper a most irksome distraction right from the beginning of their association. The latter point, he had to admit, was somewhat baffling. She was a little dab of a thing, quiet and efficient, compliant to the point of diffidence -- though once or twice she’d given him reason to believe that she was less in awe of him than he’d at first supposed. A momentary flash in the large brown eyes had indicated that she was not entirely without spirit; an imperfectly suppressed smile seemed to betray the fact that she did indeed have a sense of humor. In general, however, her demeanor was submissive, even nervous. She did not often bring herself to meet his gaze, and there was ever a hectic flush on her cheeks when he was in the room.  She rarely spoke to him, and when she did, she often exhibited a slight stammer.

One would have presumed such an insignificant creature could be easily dismissed from conscious thought in favor of the many more important matters that occupied one day to day. Yet that had not proven to be the case.

That she had been considered for the post at all was due to Sherlock's colleague, Dr. John Watson. Watson had come to know the girl years ago, when he’d boarded with the Hooper family during his days as a medical student. Miss Hooper had made a very favorable impression, even as youthful as she must have been at that time, hardly more than a child. After completing his studies, Watson had kept in touch with the family, and only six months ago had attended the patriarch’s funeral -- Dr. Arthur Hooper had died after a long illness, and his daughter was, naturally, still in deep mourning. She was, however, also deep in debt, her father having made a number of well-intentioned but very unwise investments in his final years. Miss Hooper’s mother had been prostrated when it was revealed how things had been left and had abandoned London to take up residence in Bath with her older daughter, her (reputedly) overbearing son-in-law, and their four children, none of which were older than six years of age. One would have thought even a debtor’s prison would have been preferable, and certainly Miss Hooper had declined their invitation to add her mite to the chaos. She had, instead, finished out her current term at the London School of Medicine for Women, then began to seek gainful employment. Against Watson’s advice, she had been about to accept a position as governess for the family of some factory owner in Leeds, of all places, when Mrs. Hudson became incapacitated due to a fall down the front steps of 221B. Watson begged Miss Hooper to interview for the temporary post, and Mrs. Hudson had taken an immediate liking to the girl. Sherlock had had little say in the matter, though he’d reminded them that it was entirely inappropriate for a young, single woman to take the position of housekeeper in what was essentially a bachelor establishment and, on a related note, Miss Hooper was almost wholly without experience in the domestic arts. However, since Mrs. Hudson would be paying Miss Hooper’s salary, Sherlock’s words had fallen on deaf ears.

And _this_ was the result.

“Sir? You w-wanted to see me?”

Sherlock turned to glare at the figure in the doorway, slim and straight as a blade in her plain black gown. A vivid blush stained her cheeks, as usual, and she appeared to know precisely why she had been summoned: her great brown eyes held a look expressive of both determination and trepidation, though the latter threatened to overpower the former.

Sherlock spoke in crisp, uncompromising accents. “Miss Hooper, my laboratory has been vandalized during my absence, and since you were in charge of the household during that time I can only assume it was with your consent, if not your deliberate doing. Am I not correct?”

“It… it _was_ my doing, Mr. Holmes, but let me--”

“And did I not give you detailed direction regarding the cleaning of my laboratory when you first took up your temporary position with us? After being retained _quite against my wishes_ , as I recall.”

“Yes sir, but--”

“ _But nothing, Miss Hooper!_ ” Her heightened colour was draining away in the face of his anger, and he was suddenly aware that he was experiencing a slight twinge of remorse. His ire increased, along with his resolve. “Your stay with us may very well be far more temporary than originally planned. But perhaps I should lay the blame for this outrage at Dr. Watson’s door, since your presence here was based on his glowing recommendation.”

“Oh, no, sir! Please… I just thought… the _dust_ \--”

“The dust has a _purpose_ , as does everything in my lab. Or _had_ a purpose. Your injudicious use of cleaning products--”

“Soap and water!”

“ _As I say_ , your injudicious use of cleaning products has, at one stroke, destroyed the work of _months!_ ”

“It hasn’t!”

“It _has!_ I specifically instructed you not to clean the floors in the lab, and what do I find on my return? It’s spotless! Free of dust or any other detritus. Important research in the composition of house dust has been thrown out the door _along with your damnable bucket of soap and water!_ ”

“But it _hasn’t!_ ” she insisted. Then, before he could correct her yet again, she said, firmly with just a hint of desperation, “Come with me!” turned, and hurried out the door.

“ _Miss Hooper!_ ” he nearly roared, but she paid no heed, walking swiftly away in the direction of the room in question. Since it would be highly undignified to continue shouting, he had no choice but to follow her, hissing exasperated curses under his breath as he strode after her. She was quite aware he was in pursuit, though she resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder. She did, however, pick up her skirts a bit, and hurried along at a surprisingly rapid pace. He smiled grimly.

But he was not smiling when she burst through the door of the lab and walked in as though she owned the place. He was right on her heels, by then, wondering what she would be at, marching so purposefully across the room to the opposite corner, where lay a small bookcase and a giltwood caned chair on permanent loan from Mrs. Hudson’s dining room. Then she stopped, pointed dramatically at the chair, and said, “Look there. Underneath,” her voice a little tremulous. Her colour had mounted again, but her chin was well up, and that spirited flash was once more in evidence.

Sherlock smoldered for a few long seconds, then deigned to look down, where she was pointing. And his brow furrowed. On the floor, under the spindle-legged chair, there appeared to be a square patch of dust, quite intact.

She said, “I preserved this sample, and swept most carefully before I mopped the rest of the floor. The sweepings are in that jar, on the shelf by the microscope. I agree that it is a worthy subject of research -- I… I took the liberty of preparing a slide and examining a sample myself.”

His brows rose. “ _You_ _used my microscope?_ ”

Her spirit faltered. “Y-yes. I’ve been trained in its proper use. There was no harm done, I assure you.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he snapped. He turned and went to the table where the microscope was situated, noticing that there was a small black notebook lying next to it. He ignored the latter and swiftly but thoroughly examined the instrument. It did indeed appear that there had been “no harm done” -- if anything, it appeared to have been cleaned. Every bit of the brass carefully polished. He sniffed, a bit put out, and next took up the notebook and opened it. The first page was covered in what he recognized as Miss Hooper’s small, neat writing, and a swift overview indicated detailed notes of what she’d observed on the slide of her dust sample. Turning the page, the notes continued, and there were two quite adequate illustrations.

Annoyed, he nonetheless nodded. “You appear to have begun confirmation of my theory that there are living creatures among the more inert materials contained in house dust.”  

“Yes,” she said, startling him, for she was standing at his side now, and somehow he hadn’t heard her move, no footstep, no rustle of stiff skirts.

Hoping she hadn’t seen his reaction, he turned and studied her. Not only her expression -- cautious, but gratified -- but the… the _symmetry_ of her face. He had to forcibly expunge the word _pretty_ from his brain, though it was surprisingly difficult.

She lowered her gaze to his cravat and said, “I am sorry to have displeased you, but I’ve been worried about the effects that such an accumulation of… of… well, I was worried you might become ill, if your theories proved correct. Or that _I_ might… or… or anyone.” She took a deep breath and determinedly looked up. “I was hired to take care of you, as well as Mrs. Hudson. Please… try to understand.”

He narrowed his eyes. “My understanding has always been considered most acute, Miss Hooper.”

“Yes,” she said. Her gaze dropped to the second button of his shirt.

After a moment, he said, rather resentfully, “I suppose I owe you an apology.”

She looked up again quickly at that, brows raised. “Oh, no--”

“I have a temper, as you may have noticed.”

She nodded. Carefully not smiling.

He could see right through her, however, and the phrase _Impertinent Baggage_ leapt to mind. “Going forward, you _will inform me_ of any plans you may have for… _cleaning_ my laboratory -- or any other of my rooms, for that matter. Is _that_ understood?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, very meek.

He ground his teeth a bit.

She slowly blushed a deeper pink again and cleared her throat. “M-may I go, now, sir?”

He was almost scowling, but he finally said, “It is possible that this painful incident can be turned to good purpose. As you know, Dr. Watson is no longer at leisure to assist me here on a regular basis, being obliged to put the demands of his new wife before those of his colleague and friend.”

“New wife?” Her brow wrinkled. “Didn’t they marry three years ago?”

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose it has been that long. One forgets. Or tries to. In any case, these notes you’ve made are… good. Yes. Perhaps, if your duties to Mrs. Hudson and the household allow, you would like to assist me in my lab work. The dust must be thoroughly analyzed, which will take considerable time. And I’ve what appears to be a murder to solve as well. I’ve brought back quite a number of samples from Lincolnshire that must be tested with all speed. I believe your help would expedite the process.”

She could not now prevent her smile, but managed to say quite soberly, “Thank you, sir. I… I feel sure that I will be able to find the time to assist you.”

He nodded. “I’m glad to hear it, Miss Hooper,” he replied.

He found himself rather bemused at the truth of the sentiment. ****  


 

~.~        .

****


End file.
